Centuries
by UndeadEnding
Summary: A oneshot, based on the song 'Centuries', by Fall Out Boy. (Well, it's music video) I own nothing! Please read this. You will not regret it!


**Good? Bad? Tell me! This is based on the music video for the song, 'centuries', by Fall Out Boy. Watch it, it's good!**

A slender figure, clad in a dark, messily stitched cloak walks the streets. She is obviously poor, for her clothes look like they were bought with minimum wages. She is dangerously thin, but not in the fashionable or stylish way. Ribs are visible under a woollen tunic, and she is hunched over and sporting a limp. Her age is disconcert-able, and her face is marred and mud-covered.

Despite this, her long blonde hair frames her like a halo and her eyes are a dull yet pretty shade of grey. She carries an ethereal look, and both men and women alike regard her with soft eyes and kind faces.

The crowded marketplace bustles with early morning activity, and the sunrise covers the land in a pale yellow. A large colosseum looms over the people, making them seem small and insignificant. Horse-drawn prison carts carrying the days gladiators are queuing at a pair of large heavy set, iron wrought gates.

She moves silently, weaving in and out of the streams of children with the air of someone who knows where they are going and has been there countless times before.

A muscular man sporting rags and a torn up scarf looks up to the sky and sighs. His eyes carry a look of determination and demonstrate a will to rival only steel. Lifting his chained, blood-covered hands, he brushes strands of intrusive pink hair from his brow.

The cloaked female approaches the boy and takes his hands in her own. He glances up questioningly, only to have a soft finger placed at his lips, indicating that he should remain silent. Into his grip she presses a small coil of rope. Insignificant, he disregards it almost instantly. However, he takes it and hides it in the folds of his dust incrusted shirt. Perhaps it will come in handy? And she moves on.

The lithe woman knows nothing but the rush of the fight. She lives for it, yearns for it. It is her life, and will almost certainly be her demise. The cart she drives in is hand picked from a range of highly protective modes of transportation. They fear her, even though she is beaten and broken. Her large chest us bound in countless bandages and strips of once white cloth, whilst her trousers are ill fitting and flare up. Despite this, the toughness of her muscles and her behavioural traits are a clear giveaway as to who she is. The once great Titania, taken down only once, but her title stripped and respect squandered. Her hair is pulled up into a high ponytail, shimmering in its scarlet beauty.

The cloaked female approaches the girl and takes her hands in her own. The prisoner doesn't react, not in any way. But, for an ex-soldier of the golden lion, this is to be expected. In her torn state, she would look up only to kill or be killed.

She is not insulted. Well, if she is, she hides it well. Pressing a small twine into the fallen angels' palms, she grants herself a small smile of satisfaction. A look than was not missed by the swooning onlookers. Titania thinks it useless. However, she keeps it. Perhaps it will come in handy? And she moves on.

Absolute Zero. The Cold King. Ice Slayer. All names associated with one lone person. A pariah, a lone wolf. Disrespected, but feared. He doesn't care that they hate him. He is empty inside, experiencing but unfeeling. A solitary, lonely life awaits him no matter what decisions he makes. He is a fighter of the highest price. But none of his battles distract from his fear of dying alone. A fear destined to be fulfilled time and time again. For the crimes he has committed, Mavis will surely see that he lives his lifetimes like this one - painful, but accepted. He has grown heartless over the tragedies he has seen, and that is a well known fact. For that reason alone he is surprised to see someone come for him. A well wisher or a harbinger of his doom, he cares not. Just to see a face not stained with a cruel smirk or cold eyes is enough for him to die happy, at her hands or at anyone else's.

The cloaked female approaches the boy and takes his hands in her own. He intakes a sharp breath, surprised at her motherly actions. But, before he can dwell on the fate she has planned for him, she passes him a small square of leather and briefly strokes his raven-black hair, just as his parents once had. He sighs, content, and looks at her confusing gift. Perhaps it will come in handy? And she moves on. However, this time smiling broadly and not trying to hide it.

"So much pain, for someone so young." She whispers softly.

"But, with time, he will heal. And I could not be happier for that."

Rejected. A phrase tossed around a lot in this day and age, but with a core meaning that even the tiniest infant understands and carries with them. The instinct to remove those different, be it in looks or in soul, and to hurt them, shun them. She received the best education, with tutors shipped from all over the world; but for all the English lessons taught, that word carried more and more meaning.

Because she was different. And it was plain too see. The daughter of a king, with the looks of a beautiful-yet-poor peasant. The illegitimate daughter of a man who couldn't keep a steady hold on his lust. A bastard. Raised from birth to be everything she shouldn't: a scholar, a princess... An assassin.

And she excelled at all of these. She had the knowledge, the diplomacy and the ruthless skills. A perfect recipe for disaster. And it was brewed perfectly. Under her Fathers' orders, she was ignored, hated, or beaten. Everyone got to choose how they treated her, as long as it was one of the three.

With time, her emotions faded away, until it became as though they had never existed in the first place. She sighs deeply and looks to the stars, just as her mother did years ago. Her large brown eyes flicker shut as she soaks in the smells and sounds of her surroundings. The soft rustle of a fabric against wood pulls her from her self-pity induced daydreams.

The cloaked female approaches the girl and takes her hands in her own. A small, round stone is pressed into her clammy hands, and she looks up in time to see a large pair of grey eyes. The prisoner holds it up to the light, noting how it reflects the colour of her golden blonde hair. She pockets it. Perhaps it will come in handy? And she moves on, keeping her face blank and her voice unused. There is nothing more to say. Nothing more she can say. Her job here is done.

He rages. How dare they, the puny insects, challenge him, chain him?! He will have his revenge, he knows it, and that simple fact cleanses his soul. They will pay. Even so, he rages on.

But you will remember me. Remember me for centuries.

Cheering, unrestrained and wild. Whooping, screaming, jeering, and mocking. Joy and sorrow, with money riding on the lives of dangerous innocents. They live under the charade that this is right, and so a little fun is harmless. Stay true to the rules, and avoid having your comrades betting on your own soul. A risky game, but one that many men (and women) enjoy thoroughly.

The crowds go wild as a large, white haired monster screams out in rage and pulverises his would-be opponent. He is heaving, but with joy and not pain. Long scars run the length of his body, and his nails and teeth are sharpened into claws and fangs. A true monster, sparing none and giving in totally to the moment. It is only his second 'fight' of the day, and yet the arena is already dripping in the dark red liquid. He seems to pause, and bask in the moment before finally ending the pathetic, mewling life before him. They drove him to this.

"ELFMAN, ELFMAN, ELFMAN!" They scream, rejoicing in the pain of someone else. Or, in this case, many someone elses.

The arena doors slowly slide open, bathing the blood-covered battleground in a tranquil orange glow. However, it is not to last. Four silhouettes appear, each in its own battle stance. Pink. Red. Black. Yellow.

"Let the bloodbath commence!"

Slash. Side-step. Spin. Stab. Jump. Repeat. A clear method, but not a clear vision. With no weapons and no knowledge, the only thing that is clear is the fact that they are losing. Badly. Each gladiator looks at their gift, and sighs. Useless. Pointless. Confusing. Pretty. But, in the long run? Annoying. 'Elfman' manages to land solid hits on all of them, and the only thing they can do is run. However, not all of them are fast enough. Just as the unanimous decision seems to be turning from 'kick butt' to 'give up', an idea strikes them all. They gaze at each other, and smirk. Showtime.

Elfman is happy. He is getting revenge. With each kill, his stamina decreases, but his satisfaction grows. He turns to his victims, and roars. They gape, and run scared. He charges to the blonde and is about to end her pain when... Black. Black?! No! And there, in the centre of the arena stands a pink haired man, carrying a sling shot. A slingshot with rope for the handles, a leather pouch for a holder, a stone for the ammunition and a fine black twine holding it together.

The crowds cry out in dismay. How could this have happened? Their money, all gone! And amid them, stands a small woman. She pulls off her cloak, and reveals a beautiful (if flat-chested) body, with pink skirts and a large bow at her neck. As she fades away, she smiles softly. Fairy Tail... My children... Thank you.


End file.
